This was to be his day of glory.
King Viserys Targaryen was losing the war. He had taken and held King's Landing for over half a year, and he held a numerical advantage over his foe, but any man with half a mind could see that the odds were stacking heavier and heavier against him. This sense of defeat was doubly frustrating considering he himself had yet to so much as draw his blade in any true battle. The Ironborn had failed him, nearly half of the Greyjoy family dead. Maron Greyjoy, who Viserys supposed was their new king though his understanding of Ironborn succession laws had always been hazy, was trying a last-ditch effort to defeat Stannis Baratheon, but the King of the Iron Throne was no fool. If two fleets of Ironborn hadn't been able to defeat the Iron Stag, he highly doubted a third would fare any better.
His brother and nephew had managed to merge with friendly forces, despite Maylo Jayn's attempts. Fewer lords had sworn for him than he had anticipated. The cold had increased in the last several weeks until it was nearly unbearable. Myrcella had escaped those months ago, as had Alysanne and her spawn. King's Landing was destined to fall to the Dornish moving up from the south, and likely already had.
He still didn't have Daenerys.
Yes, Viserys was losing the war. But today, with one decisive battle, he was going to turn that tide. Today he was going to become the uncontested King of the Iron Throne in the most complete of methods.
He was going to kill all other claimants ahead of him.
He peered across the ice-skimmed shallows of the Trident to the army forming on the opposite bank. He had been here, waiting for them, for over a week, his scouts reporting they had remained encamped a few days north for nearly as long. Viserys had been concerned that his brother and nephew wouldn't take Viserys up on the poetic justice of a second Battle of the Trident; Aegon's reign had begun here, why not see if it would end here as well? Still, the army of his kinsmen had remained where they were long after they had surely learned of Viserys' location.
But in the end, Viserys' knowledge of his brother had won out. Aelor, though he would never admit it, had a weakness for interweaving sentimental and physical points into the same blow. He had, after all, played the Rains of Castamere minutes before destroying Lannisport, and every day of the Siege of Casterly Rock. The temptation of returning here to solve the fate of the Iron Throne, here where his greatest victory had been achieved, would have been too much to pass up.
And so Aegon was here, at the center of the armies marching towards him. Aelor was here as well; Viserys had seen the warring white dragons and the ragtag band of heavily armed killers that formed his retinue. His two most important sons were likely here as well, leaving only the boy Daemon and the bookish, weak Aemon. His daughters made no difference, as none in Westeros would choose a female over a healthy, living male as ruler, and the two other nephews could easily be dealt with at a later date, once the lords swore for him upon the death of their two true leaders. Viserys supposed there was a chance the child Myrcella had been carrying had been a boy and could conceivably be considered higher in the succession, but Viserys felt no fear of an infant.
He wasn't nearly as good an uncle as Aelor had been. He'd already killed a niece; what difference would adding a nephew to the list be? Besides, Gods willing, it would be the fourth nephew he dispatched, following the three here today.
That left only Jaehaerys, and from what Viserys was hearing from the North that nephew was either already dead or soon would be.
His Kingsguard sat their horses around him, silent and waiting. He still only had four members, leaving the rest open for men who were currently opposing him. It was a unifying technique, one used by Aelor when he had appointed Rolland Storm at the end of the Rebellion. He supposed there would have been wisdom to have a full complement before this penultimate battle, but Viserys had opted against it.
As he looked across the banks and water, he wondered if it was his worst mistake yet.
The army facing him didn't look like the ragtag band of half-starved men the scouts had told him to expect, even if he accounted for the fresh men of the Arryns. The months it had taken them to dig their way out of the north should have left them in a state of disarray, animals starved and men suffering. Instead they looked like an army of grizzled professionals, as intimidating as the Golden Company that surrounded Viserys. There were also different banners than the ones he had been expecting, belonging to more houses than the ones that had reportedly went north with Aegon.
The trout of Tully could be seen, as well as the standards of lesser riverlords. Most of them flew above what appeared to be cavalry, though there was still enough distance between the two forces that it was difficult to pick out exactly where one of Aegon's formations ended and another began. His nephew wasn't as weak as Viserys would have wanted, but the Golden Dragon wouldn't be deterred; this was where he would win his crown, just as Aelor had won Aegon's nearly twenty years ago.
He spoke to the officers around him. "You all know the plan." Renly Baratheon and his band of dissenting lords would form the right, Viserys in command of the center with the assistance of Duncan Strong and Maylo Jayn the left. Black Balaq and his archers were the reserve, ready to counter any attack with a barrage of arrows from their greatbows. Harry Strickland was in command of the elephants, the secret weapon that Viserys supposed wasn't so secret.
He was answered with a round of affirmatives and Your Graces. "Excellent. Ser Loras, you are in command of the charge. Do not disappoint me."
"I won't, Your Grace." The Knight of Flowers was dressed in his boisterously expensive armor, adorned with jeweled flowers from helm to plated boots. He had foregone his signature cape of woven roses—he'd have been hard pressed to find a single flower in these snows, much less enough to weave out an entire cape. Still, Viserys wondered if he realized this was a war, not one of the tourneys the young Tyrell was so used to dominating. That wonder had nearly made Viserys appoint another, more experienced commander, but the Knight of Flowers was an excellent fighter and rider even if his mindset was wrong. He would look splendid heading the charge atop his white destrier, and his skill for swordplay would be needed.
"Good. All of you, to your places." His commanders reined their animals around, kicking them into gallops that threw droves of snow into the air. "Ser Duncan." The father of Viserys' very young Lord Commander of the Kingsguard instantly trotted to his side. The Golden Company serjeant was in direct command of the lines in the center, while Viserys would remain a stone's throw back to oversee the entire operation. Until it is time, and then I will personally claim my crown. "Take command of the center, and wait until my order."
"Yes, Your Grace." The serjeant paused only a moment to clasp wrists with his white-cloaked son before he rode towards the lines of men, levy and mercenary, silently awaiting the bloodshed to come
Viserys watched as Aegon's army marched the rest of the way towards their bank, spears ready to drop into position. The wind picked up slightly, the flakes blowing in at an angle. Viserys let his eyes rove the lines of enemy forces, searching until his eyes found him.
A man in scarred black armor sat a massive destrier towards the back of the enemy lines, his helm adorned with white flames.
And he was staring right at Viserys.
He'd stared across this same ford a lifetime ago, though then it had been from the opposite bank. It was here nearly every friend the Dragon of Duskendale had had died. It was here his elder brother, the Silver Prince, the Poet, had fallen lifeless into the water. It was here where the man who slew him had in turn been slain, two Kings dead within the span of a few minutes as the blood of thousands turned the water red.
It was here Aelor Targaryen once again gazed across a ford at an opposing army, his King and blood by his side. This time the water was icy and the world was white with snow, with more pouring out of the sky, but Aelor Targaryen could still see the corpses stacked high in his mind's eye. He could point out exactly where Rhaegar had fallen with his rubies glittering in the bloody water, could see the spot where Robert Baratheon had followed him into death, could still see Renfred Rykker half-submerged with a sword under his ribs and a lance in his shoulder.
This ford held many memories for him, each more terrible than the last. It was fitting he would come here to die.
"Nearly twenty years have passed, yet I can still see it as vividly as if it had happened only this morning."
A voice answered form his left, Alaric reigning a stallion—one of the few truly healthy ones—to a halt beside him. "Aye, Your Grace." The Lord of the Brindlewood pointed to a spot on their side of the bank where a line of men-at-arms were adding to the shieldwall. "There is where you fell off your horse."
The Dragon of Duskendale couldn't help but smirk. "Aye, and where you didn't let me die." The smirk died as he in turn gestured towards the middle of the ford, where in minutes bodies would once again clog the waters. "And that is where Rhaegar did."
"I never visited this ford. You'd think I would have, since here is where my father died and my reign began." King Aegon Targaryen, the Sixth of his name, sat a destrier as regally as Rhaegar ever had. He was dressed in the expensive, quality armor he had so wanted to test; thick black plate rippled with streaks of crimson, his helm adorned with seven red-gold points to signify the similar crown the King wore in times of peace. Behind him Dickon Tarly held the Targaryen banner, crimson dragon flapping in the wind.
Across the ford, a golden one did the same. It seems the entire world is poetic these days. The first Targaryen civil war had the greens and the blacks; this one has the reds and the golds. The bards will love it.
His eyes found Viserys, despite the forest of spears and helms in the way. He was sitting his saddle in the very same position Aelor and Rhaegar once had, watching across the ford. Golden wings sprouted from a helm of black steel, gaudy and expensive. White cloaks surrounded him, mounted on fresh horses, their great lungs billowing clouds of steam into the snow-filled air.
Hello brother. I've come to kill you.
"Renlor, Baelon." His two sons, who had been sitting their stallions to the right and back of the King and his Hand, responded, Ren with a "father" and Baelon with a grunt. "You will fight alongside the king today."
Aegon turned to cast a questioning eye on his uncle, and Aelor knew both his sons were doing the same. Ren spoke for all three. "But, father, our place is with you."
The Dragon of Duskendale's voice didn't possess the harsh tone his words could have held, his voice instead low and calm. "Your place is where I deem it. Today I deem it alongside the king."
The king in question spoke, voice unchallenging. "Baelon is your squire."
"He is also my son. I can live without the former, but not the latter. If they ride beside me into the hell I'll be charging into I'm likely to get your entire army killed. I want them with you."
"Fighting will be rough here as well."
Aelor nodded, eyes never having left the spot where he had locked gazes with Viserys, though a banner with the three buckles of Buckler had since blocked his gaze. "Aye, that it will, but my charges have a tendency to be suicidal." He finally looked to Aegon. "Your mother would never forgive me if I let any of you join me."
His king gave no further argument, merely tilting his head in deference. The lines had finished forming, Randyll Tarly in command of the left and Jon Arryn the right. An eerie silence had descended as the men on both sides held their breath, two armies waiting for one or the other to land the first blow in a vicious brawl.
A call to knock from across the river broke through it, instantly followed by a cry for shields on their own. Their mercenary bows outrange our own by dozens of yards, but we were ready for that. Father, Mother, any of you who will listen, please protect my sons. Out loud Aelor spoke simple words, not feverish prayers. "It seems we are about to begin." He clasped Aegon's wrist, then shifted his horse to do the same with Renlor and Baelon. For just a moment he gave into the emotion welling in his chest at the sight of them. "Never has a man been blessed with such wonderful sons." He glanced at Aegon then, to make sure the king knew he was including him in the statement. "I love you all more than you'll ever know."
With a half-roar from his stallion, the Dragon of Duskendale turned and cantered towards his command.
"Loose!"
Hundreds of bowstrings twanged, sending hundreds of arrows into the falling snow. Cries of "shields, shields" and "duck" sounded from the other bank, and there was an odd few seconds before those shouts of warning became screams of dying men. The shrill cry of a struck horse filled the sky, and Viserys shudder at its bloodcurdling sound. He'd heard it before at the tourney at Bitterbridge, when a hedgeknight had struck a dishonorable blow on a Reachman lordling's horse. It had been terrible then, and it was still terrible now.
He knew he would hear it time and time again in the coming hours.
Before the screams elicited from the first volley had even fully started the Golden Company archers had drawn and fired again. Black Balaq and his men were quick and accurate, torrents of arrows falling on the heads of the loyalist forces. Viserys let them fire five, ten, fifteen volleys, half-expecting some kind of response from Aegon. He got none, his nephew's lines remaining in position, shields over their heads as they grimly waited out the storm of sharpened steel and snowflakes.
Ah well. We figured that may be the case. He spoke to banner-bearer slightly behind him. "Now."
The banner dipped twice to signal Ser Loras, who had clearly been chomping at the bit. The Knight of Flowers instantly kicked his men into action, thousands of mounted knights and freeriders thundering away from Viserys own lines towards the enemy, their guttural war cries filling the air. The Golden Dragon watched their progress, watched as Aegon's own archers opened fire. Dozens of his knights and lancers spilled from their saddles, and dozens more horses added their dying screams into the cacophony of battle. They had charged towards the frozen shallows of a river, the water covered in a thin coat of ice and thicker coat of snow.
It had been clean and pure when Tyrell began his charge; he left an ugly mess of broken ice and broken bodies in his wake. Viserys didn't know how many of his men died crossing the icy water, but it made no difference. They smashed into Aegon's forces like an armored fist, as Aelor had smashed into Robert Baratheon years earlier.
Just as they had then the sides of the defending lines swooped in on the intruding horsemen. Viserys saw his nephew's royal banner in the middle of it all, the former King of the Iron Throne amidst the carnage that bank was certain to be. His brother's banner of white warring dragons was near it, and while Viserys hadn't seen his uncle in the beehive of bodies across the water he was certain he was there, killing alongside his king.
"Our left, Your Grace. They are weakest on the left."
Viserys allowed his eyes to follow Ormund Cole's pointing finger, focusing on the left of the Crimson Dragon's lines. While it was hard to distinguish where one force began and another ended, the opposite bank looking like a northern melee of steel and snow, the far left of Aegon's force was visibly weaker than the right or center. There were banners of knights and houses on that side, same as everywhere, but they were fewer, denoting a larger force of levies.
It was sensible of Aegon; the terrain on that flank was naturally steeper than the center or right, and his scouts had certainly reported it. It was not much of a difference, but enough of one to ensure men and horses would have a more difficult time climbing it. Aegon and his advisers had placed their strongest troops where they would most be needed. It was sensible.
It was also a mistake, the type of mistake Golden Company had been hoping for. Viserys took it. "Signal Lord Strickland. Focus on the left now, before they can reinforce it!"
His signalman waved the banner again, and Viserys felt the rumble as the elephants burst from their cover in the trees. They made an even more glorious sight than Loras Tyrell had, their great grey hides covered in armor, saddles on their backs home to several archers and crossbowmen. Their ivory tusks were sharpened at the end, ready to impale and knock aside their foe.
They would fold Aegon's left in on itself, and Viserys chose that moment to take command.
He kicked his destrier into action. "I will lead the infantry."
Alester Strong hesitated, though the other Kingsguard began to follow. "This is close enough, Your Grace."
Viserys spared only a moment to glare at him. "It isn't close enough for Aelor." He galloped on, ignoring his Lord Commander, his infantry parting to let him pass as he came through their lines. He drew his sword, his Kingsguard doing the same, and thrust it above his head, kicking his stallion into a sprint at the heels of the elephants.
His infantry, following the stiff commands of their officers, followed, shouting their own war cries.
And Viserys Targaryen rode forth to claim his crown.
The Dragon of Duskendale had never in his life been so close to a real battle without participating in it, and it was driving him insane.
Warrior roared and pawed, clearly as unhappy as his master at being so far from the action. Behind him lines of mounted knights and freeriders silently sat their mounts, the best animals Aegon's forces had left. Their numbers were bolstered by half of Edmure Tully's mounted men, but Aelor hadn't dared take all of them. Aegon had to have some mounted force to make Viserys play his hand first; those men and been in the center around Aegon, and the Dragon of Duskendale had watched as they had countered the Golden Company's first charge, every nerve in his body screaming for him to be there alongside them. His sons were wrapped up in that bloody melee, and Aelor had no way of knowing if they were alive or dead.
"I should have kept Ren and Baelon with me," he muttered under his breath. "Gods what was I thinking."
Alaric answered from beside him, hand lightly tracing the grains of wood in the shaft of the boar spear he held. "You were thinking our job is going to be much more dangerous than theirs. You were right."
Aelor craned his neck to stare at his old friend, the Lord of Brindlewood in a set of dark armor with the stars of his house etched all over the breastplate. "Worse than that?"
Alaric looked at him, visor still up to show his calm face. "You know it will be."
He did, but it was hard to imagine it now.
Each of his knights was armed not with lances but instead boar spears, one in both their right and left hands, their shields strapped to their forearms. The thick shafts and reinforced spearheads were meant for piercing the thick hide of wild boars, not elephants, but they would do better than normal spears or lances. They were heavy and cumbersome, but behind the weight of charging destriers they stood an excellent chance of doing real damage.
If it turns out they didn't the battle would be lost anyway. The elephants were the key factor for both sides; it would be difficult for Aegon to defeat Viserys' army in conventional Westerosi battle, but it would be impossible if the elephants were not dealt with quickly. No one on the continent aside from a few former sellswords in Aelor's retinue had any experiences fighting the beasts, and most hadn't even seen one. The archers had been ordered to forego all other targets and focus solely on the creatures when they entered the battlefield, aiming for their eyes and throats if possible, but Aelor and Aegon had agreed that that likely wouldn't be enough.
Instead the Dragon of Duskendale sat still as men fought and died hundreds of yards away, concealed by the same trees Oberyn Martell had once flanked Robert Baratheon from. The Seven I could use Oberyn now. He and his knights waited for the Golden Company to unleash their trump card, unmoving as more and more men died.
When they came barreling out of cover on the far bank, Aelor was too relieved they had finally appeared to be scared.
"Ready!" He called to his men, lowering his helm with white crests over his head. The White Dragon felt the ripple of excitement and heard the clank of steel as they prepared behind him, felt the loved rush of battle fill his veins.
"They're focusing on the left as you hoped." Bronn wore minimal armor, striking an odd figure beside the steel-encased men beside him, but Aelor hadn't sent him away. The sellsword looked in his element, gripping the boar spear almost lovingly. "I've never fought elephants before. It should be one hell of a fucking experience."
Aelor made no response to the sellsword, instead bellowing at the top of his lungs to the men behind him. "Forward!" With a roar of impatience Warrior exploded out of the trees, the old stallion nearly outrunning the younger beasts beside him in his mad dash to reach the battle. Aelor heard the war cry of his men behind, added his own voice to it even as he saw Viserys' infantry following close behind the elephants. This is where I belong. This is what I was born for.
Lord Arryn had been ordered to pull his men out if the Golden Company took the bait, reforming them behind Aelor's desperate charge and plugging the gaps the deaths he incurred would leave. The Lord Paramount of the Vale was a capable man, but his job had been nearly impossible; of the men fleeing from the elephant's very few looked ready to rejoin the battle, most of them peasant levies who had thrown their weapons aside and were fleeing as if the Stranger himself was behind them. It doesn't matter. Bring the beasts down.
The world grew silent, the screams of the dying and war cries of the living fading away as Aelor stared through his visor at his target, the lead elephant rumbling towards the sudden hole in loyalist lines.
Rhaegar crossed his mind, as did Renfred Rykker and Elwood Harte. All of those who had died fighting for him, some on this very bank and others on the far, crossed his mind. The face of Robert Baratheon, the terrified eyes of the Rogers', the squire whose throat he had cut a lifetime ago in the Stormlands.
All of it. Everything.
And then Warrior was leaping off the rise of the bank towards the icy waters of the Trident, the lead elephant encompassing Aelor's vision as it tried to step up the bank.
He had mistimed his charge. The plan had been for most of the war beasts to clamber up the bank before Aelor and his men hit them. All of the sudden his broad charge had been shrunken to a not so broad window, but Aelor didn't let it concern him. He had no idea what would happen behind him, but it didn't matter. All that mattered was the armored elephant to his front, an archer on its back drawing back an arrow aimed at Aelor, its eye vulnerable, obviously uncovered by the armor protecting its forehead and flanks.
The Dragon of Duskendale roared as he struck with the boar spear in his right hand with the strength and accuracy of a born warrior, his mount and body airborne as he drove the steel head deep into the elephant's eye socket. The arrow fired by the archer atop it's back deflected off the white flames of his helmet, the world in slow motion as he released the thick shaft of the spear.
He nearly lost his seat atop Warrior as the old destrier crashed into the shallow icy water, Aelor having only been held to the horse by his stirrups during the leap. His rear collided with the saddle again viciously hard but Aelor paid it no mind, already gripping the second spear as the first elephants agonized trumpet filled the air.
It was as if he had leapt into a forest where the tree trunks were grey, rough and moving. The grey of elephant hide and white of ivory tusks were everywhere, their armored sides broad. Instinct and his years of training took over, that same instinct and years of training that had allowed him to strike the lead elephant a fatal blow. His second spear was not as lucky, embedding in the armor a few inches below another elephant's throat. Aelor drew his blade, hacking away at the back of elephant knees and the straps of saddles. Another arrow from one of their riders deflected off of his right shoulder plate, a third off the thick mail of Warrior's neck.
His destrier bellowed and roared his disdain for the great grey beasts surrounding him, more than once attempting to take a bite out of their thickly hided legs. Aelor swung and swung, was covered in a freezing splash of water as somebody brought another of the animals down. It was unlike anything he had ever done yet still all the same, the Dragon of Duskendale desperately striking not at enemy swords and unprotected throats but instead saddles and legs. He didn't know how the battle fared, if his charge had done any good at all, but it didn't matter. He struck and struck and struck again, lost in the forest of grey.
He and Warrior both felt the presence too late. Aelor shot his head around to the left, his destrier trying to turn his body away, but the elephant was already too close. Aelor didn't know which of them, him or the elephant, were pointing the wrong direction, but it unceremoniously sank it's sharpened, curved ivory tusks into Warrior's flanks, the force of the charging animal driving the tusks through the chainmail blanket. His trusted mount roared, this time in pain, as Aelor wrapped a hand around his neck in half-a-hug to keep himself atop the stallion as the elephant picked them up into the air as if they were nothing, tossing them aside like a child done with a toy.
The Dragon of Duskendale came out of the saddle and lost his grip on Warrior during the flight, his body lost in a world without definition before he crashed down into the icy water. Both the impact and the cold water would have knocked the breath from Aelor's lungs, so the two of them combined certainly accomplished the feat. His mind spun, breath coming in long gasps as he tried to right the world that had so suddenly become upside down. Splashes crashed all around him, an elephant's foot landing mere inches from his head and tossing a wave of the shallow water into his helm. Aelor swallowed a lungful of the stuff, still trying to gasp for the air his body so desperately needed, and was greeted with the terrifying need to cough compounded with the need to breath.
If you had told the Dragon of Duskendale he was dying in that moment he would have believed you, mindlessly crawling through the water trying to both breath and hack up the water in his lungs, all thoughts of battle lost. He didn't know if it was water dripping from his nose or blood. His ears were ringing, his head throbbing.
Aelor didn't know how he ended up at Warrior's side, but the stallion that had been one of his oldest friends was suddenly in front of him, the White Dragon finding his wits again as he pulled his body up against his stallion. His chainmail blanket had come up to drape over the saddle, revealing the two deep wounds that were hemorrhaging blood. Even if those could be staunched and were survivable, his front legs had been snapped in the fall, the right with the bone jutting out through his black skin.
The old warhorse was game even in his death, and Aelor had to lean back out of the way as the great beast tried to stand up despite his wounds. But of course his legs couldn't hold any weight, and thrice the great beast fell back into the shallow waters before he stopped trying.
Aelor started to lay his right hand on Warrior's neck, only then realizing he still gripped his sword. Instead he laid his left hand in its place, shield askew but still strapped to his arm. Warrior threw his head towards Aelor, flat teeth bared as if he intended to bite the White Dragon's head off. He stopped, though, as his pained eyes registered who it was that touched him. The destrier didn't scream in pain, didn't try to rise again; instead, he bent his muscled neck to nuzzle Aelor's helm twice, air escaping his lungs in a heavy sigh and washing over his master's face, before the great stallion lowered his head back down flat.
A rider leapt the body of broken-hearted man and broken-bodied horse, throwing water over them both. Warrior remained still but breathing as Aelor released his sword, drawing instead the emerald dagger on his belt. Warrior knew what Aelor was doing—the destrier had asked for it. The warhorse lay still, breath still coming, as his rider slipped the dagger under his chainmail blanket to his chest.
"You were a great warrior, old friend. The Seven will fight over which one gets to ride you."
Aelor sank the long-bladed knife deep into the dying stallion's heart. His old friend pulled in a quick breath before his body went still, his last breath leaving his lungs in one last roar.
The mercenary didn't have time to react when a dark figure rose from beside a dead horse with a great cry, water flying from it in droves as its blade decapitating the member of the Golden Company. Aelor roared as his stallion once had, tearing into the Golden Company infantry as they slogged across the corpse-strewn water, cutting one down, disemboweling another, turning one's face into a mess of rearranged skin and bone with his shield, roaring all the while.
Aelor drove his blade into a sellswords guts, feeling more than seeing the battle enveloping all around him. He didn't know if any or all of the elephants were alive, didn't know if Aegon had already broken. All Aelor could think of was one thing, and he yelled it over the din of battle, voice booming like thunder.
"Viserys!"